


Common Ground

by coveredbyroses



Series: The Porn Wars [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex, Smut, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 16:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18664261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: Set in Season 1. You and Dean are at each other’s throats again, but when Sam and Bobby leave the two of you alone for a bit, things…go in a different direction.





	Common Ground

“You’re such a brat, you know that?”

“Ow! _Dean!_ Let go-” His fingers are curled tight around your bicep, tight enough to ache down to the bone. “What the fuck, dude! Stop!” He’s dragged you to the kitchen; Bobby’s kitchen. The older hunter had just stepped out for a quick supply run, had taken Sam too because even  _he_  must sick of breathing the same oxygen as Mister Bravado.

It had started as soon as you’d awoken this morning. Last night’s case was a tough one; a spirit. A very old, very  _disgruntled_ spirit. You’d stumbled out of bed still a little draggy from it, and you just wanted some coffee to clear your head and recharge.

So, of  _course_  Dean had already finished the last of it by the time you’d shuffled into the kitchen.  _I’m driving,_ he’d said, barely offering you a glance as his shoulders lifted in a carefree shrug, like it made all the sense in the world for him to consume  _all_  the caffeine. Then - oh, and this is the kicker - he’d had the actual  _audacity_  to critique your hunting style.  _You’re too eager,_  he’d said, crunching his way down a strip of crisp bacon.  _Gonna get all our asses killed one of these days._

You’d shot back with a remark about his driving, something about having a better chance at ending up as roadkill than monster chow, and then it was on. You were nose to nose in the living room, eyes blazing, tongues sharp.

You’re a shit cook.

He takes too long in the shower.

You crack your knuckles too much.

He leaves his dirty laundry all over the floor.

You’re irritatingly hot.

Yeah, well, so is he-

Wait… What?

 _You think I’m hot?_ You’d breathed, dumbfounded. He’d shifted on his feet, eyes wide with disbelief, mouth working silently as his brain tried to generate an acceptable response.

 _Yeah. You think_ I’m _hot?_

_…Maybe._

He was on you in an instant; hands cupping your jaw, lips slotted against yours. It wasn’t gentle by any means - it was hungry and demanding, but you’d eagerly opened up for him, let him slide his tongue wet-hot over yours while you clutched his shoulders. His hands grew just as greedy as his mouth, dropped down to your ass, squeezing. Your breath had clipped when he’d jerked your hips flush to his, let you feel that swollen lump mashed against your belly. He’d broken away far too soon, cracked eyes drinking in the swell of your lips, the hot flush of your cheeks. Your fingers tightened into the navy sleeves of his overshirt because it was the only thing keeping you upright. Dean had smirked.

So here you are in Bobby’s cluttered kitchen; Dean’s fingers bruising your arm, the lingering ghost of his lips still burning on yours. He folds you over the table a little too roughly, the wooden edge of it aching into the fronts of your thighs. “Dean! The fuck are you doing-”

“Unless you got any objections,” he says, kicking your feet apart with the leather toe of his boot. “I’m gonna fuck the brat right outta ya.”

“Oh,” you gasp, dumbly, teeth dragging over your lips at the rush of heat that settles between your legs.

“Oh?” Dean parrots, mocking, heavy against your back, mouth at your ear.

“No objections here,” you smirk, voice velvety thick, pushing your ass back against his hips; inviting.

A hand curls around your hip, thumb brushing up underneath your shirt. “Bobby’ll be back any minute y’know…”

He’s testing.

You push harder against him. “Guess we’d better hurry.”

You barely have time to suck in a breath before he’s  _ripping_  your jeans down to your ankles, hooks two fingers underneath the crotch of your panties and yanks them aside. That hot weight leaves your back, and you get up to your forearms, try to twist your head around to see - when you feel a hot, wet drag trace right over the damp seam of your cunt. It makes you lurch forward, and a breathy moan breezes over your lips. He goes again, but this time he’s spreading you open with both thumbs, fitting his tongue  _inside_  - so deep, and,  _oh-_

“Shit!” you whisper, shaky. God, he’s groaning now. You can feel it bubbling up into you as he works his tongue in and out, and goddamnit, there’s just no  _time_  for this-

You’re about to tell him as much when he pulls back to bounce up to his feet. A finger-splayed hand presses against the center of your back, pushing you down until your tits are flush with wood, and then the distinct clinking of a belt buckle cuts through the breathless quiet. Dean’s pulling your panties down now, and you shiver when cool air meets your drenched folds. You’re wet, so wet, slick with a combination of Dean’s mouth and your own excitement.

A brush of knuckles and he’s pushing against you, pushing in; sinking. It makes your eyes roll, the thickness of him, and then he’s folding in over you, front to your back. He gets one had braced against against the table, the other loosely looped around your throat, massive hand gripping your left shoulder. You only realize, just now, the absolute  _strength_  of the man. He doesn’t ease into it, doesn’t start slow, just falls into a rapid,  _hungry_  pace. He’s fucking into you with enough force to rock the table, hips snapping hard enough for your ass to bounce.

It feels good, almost  _too_  good; the way he’s piercing into you, splitting you open over and over. You’ve got both hands clamped down on his muscled forearm at your throat  The push and drag almost burns, but it’s wanted, and each heavy drive grinds your clit deliciously into the rough edge of the worn surface.

He’s  _fiercely_  pistoning into you now, plunging in so fucking  _deep._ You’d probably hear the airy grunts of his efforts if the blood wasn’t such a wild whir in your ears, if you weren’t squeaking his name on every thrust, voice tight and screechy. Dean pulls his arm from your throat so he can jam a hand between your legs, gets a finger right on your clit, rubbing and swirling, stoking the heat until you’re shaking, sweat pebbling along your hairline. Your belly tightens with every exquisite swipe of his calloused fingers, with every root-deep thrust.

You’re squealing, curses pouring from your lips in a steady stream as your orgasm  _zooms_  in. His fingers press harder and harder until everything between your legs is just a wet, tingling-hot mess.

You cry out as you come, clamp down so hard it makes Dean grunt and curse, but he just keeps jabbing into you, elongates the rolling pleasure until he suddenly pulls out, then eases you off the table to coax you to your knees.

He’s jerking himself quick and hard, pumping and twisting into his fist, and you can hear the lewd slick of it underneath his breathy moans. You get your hands on his bare thighs, stretch out your tongue, and cut your eyes up to his. His lips are parted soft; full and thick, eyes lust-dark and devoid of their brilliance. He shuffles closer, drops the tip of him against the flat of your tongue. His jaw goes slack and you can actually  _see_  the orgasm ripple up through him, then pour from his mouth in a tight snarl.

Stripe after stripe of salty wet spurts against your tongue, and the taste of it has your cunt clenching all over again. You make a show of swallowing it down, wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand as you keep your unblinking gaze pinned to his.

The metallic click of a door latch disengaging has the two of you scrambling to redress, and Dean has just fastened his belt when Sam and Bobby come thumping into the kitchen.

“You two are actually in the same room?” Bobby grumbles, eyes flicking between you as he thunks a paper bag on the counter. Your lips part, but the words aren’t coming.

“Yeah,” Dean says finally. “I mean, she’s a giant pain in my ass, but I think we’ve found some common ground.” The older hunter just grunts, then turns to retrieve the rest of the load from the car.

You chance a look at Dean, and Sam notices, mouth quirking up and eyes mirthful as he takes a step closer. His gaze dances from you, to Dean, then back to you before he leans in and  _sniffs_.

“You two stink like sex.”


End file.
